


Contextual Relations

by Anonymous



Series: In Context [2]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Implied Relationships, No Smut, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-06 08:24:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21223550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The Constant makes living in such large groups rather...difficult.But it is manageable.





	Contextual Relations

"And this is why you need the practice."

Firm taps on their handed in paper, examining the scribble chicken scratch handwriting closely, and Wickerbottom sniffed sharply, raised a hand to adjust her glasses as she looked down once more upon her student. 

"Dear, I know you may have certain disadvantages when compared to Wendy, but you are simply just falling too far behind. It disappoints me that, with all I have offered, you still are having trouble."

The spider hybrid wavered, all those limbs twitching and curling close, bleach white eyes solemn and empty, and even as they fidgeted and clasped their claws together the older woman still had the distinct feeling of talking to a brick wall. A young child they may be, but Webber was surprisingly difficult to teach, and even harder to try and motivate. 

They had the energy to do so, but what they put that childish energy into was not what she'd rule as important enough.

"We're sorry, Miss Wickerbottom." Their spidery husk of a voice was rough, dry and crackled, and they looked up at her with empty pale spider eyes. "We're...we are doing our best…"

Wickerbottom made a sound at that, a low, disappointed hiss, deepened with age, face souring as she glanced over the incomprehensible scribbles once more. There was nothing salvageable to her eye, and it was a waste of papyrus now. Gathering the required reeds from the swamps was always a long hassle, not to mention the biome itself stunk terribly.

The tentacles were obnoxiously smelly, and whoever even stepped foot in there came back stinking to high heaven. There was a reason she had a specific rule for bathing when someone ventured out there.

"Well, your best will just need to be worked a little harder upon, now will it?" Heaving a sigh, turning to set the paper down upon her table and then giving a last hard look upon the child before her, those eyes staring unblinkingly up at her, Wickerbottom finally gave in to their imploring little gaze.

Even she couldn't fight off that part of her nature for long, not even in the pursuit of teaching.

"I will allow you a few days of recuperation, and practice, Webber. Think about what your level of best is, and find a way to take it to a much better standard. I wish to be able to read and understand your handwriting by the end of the week." She watched as they nodded their head, all those limbs and mandibles shifting and moving and twitching about, spider eyes blinking in pairs, their bristle of fur as they gave her a dawning spider smile. "Do you understand?"

"Yes. Miss Wickerbottom! We'll do better this time, you'll see!"

Their high gurgling voice made her wince, enough for them to curl back from being so excitable, and at least they knew how to pick up on reactions from those around them. As she rubbed her head, holding in another sigh for politeness sake, she supposed she should be glad for how much they've learned in such a short amount of time.

When she spoke of the disadvantages of Webber, she did not just mean the lack of functionality that was their three fingered claws.

"I better, Webber. Your studies are very important, and you should be taking them seriously." At their more subdued nod, Wickerbottom moved a hand, a curt exhale as she waved them off in dismissal. "You may take the rest of the day off, dear. I suggest you go see what Wendy is up to."

Webber bounced back near instantly into excitable energy, waving their mandibles and limbs and nodding vigorously, before near leaping and bounding away, off to the gardens to find their little friend. While practice work had been more in her mind, the old woman also acknowledged that the social interaction was just as important.

Webber was most certainly not human any longer, but that did not mean they had never been one. She would not ignore that aspect of their development, as so many of the others did, intentionally or mistaken as it was.

Ignorance or not, the addition of spider did not change the human half. Webber was not a stupid child; they listened, they heard, and they scented just the same as the rest of the encampment, no matter how much arachnid was in them.

Was it harder, knowing what bothered them, or just what mood they were in? Perhaps, but children, to Wickerbottoms mind, were simple enough to understand. Wendy, those few years older as she was to Webber, was no different.

Immature, inexperienced youth. The old woman remembered a time when she taught for a living, when she used to nanny high caste children, and while she may be much higher up in the years now and well past her prime Wickerbottom still had confidence in her abilities. Surrounded by a lot of the dysfunctional backwaters of humanity as she was now, Webber and Wendy most certainly needed that guiding hand in how to be a functional member of civilized society. 

She may not be as much help as she wished, as Webber was a sort of lost cause with their additional monster like traits, but she would never back down from a challenge that concerned the training of youth. 

Unfortunate, that she has been already labeled as traditional. As if that was such a terrible thing, really.

She supposed, surrounded by the challenges she was living with now, that it was expected. The sort of things she has to deal with nowadays, and at her age!

She should be living out the rest of her retirement at home, with the occasional visits from her grandchildren; not this savage mess of survival and fighting a world not at all fit for survival in the first place. 

But, even in her old age, Wickerbottom was not one to back down from a challenge. Long ago, back when she had been much younger and spring ready, that part of her had been met with much disdain.

Adamant challenging of what others thought of her was not at all what she had been taught when growing up, but even as traditional following as she was it had never been taught out of her. Much older now, and having achieved what society wished of her so long ago, Wickerbottom was just fine with the way she had turned out.

She had done what every high beta should ever wish to achieve, and should now be living out the success of her life's achievements. How unfortunate, that she was in this dreadful place instead.

And surrounded by absolutely backward savages. She supposed it was good then, that she was here for the children.

With Wendy's uncle being who he was, she most certainly needed a stable beta to set an example of good behavior. Maxwell was no role model.

With both children off in the gardens, her duties for the day were a bit more diminished. The encampment held a wide variety of people, and the workload was a shared thing between them all. Survival in the Constant required all hands available, and everyone to be minding themselves.

For the most part, Wickerbottom was at least relieved in the fact that no one was any sort of extreme hooligan. If any were, she'd not allow such degeneracy to take stay in the camp for long, and any such activities she has strictly forbidden in the confines of this living area itself. It anyone got rambunctious there were mini camps set up a few miles away, and she'd not allow anything else otherwise.

Old as she was, Wickerbottom herself already knew her own cycles would be no issue. Age at least gave her that reprieve.

But it would not help if someone stuck around in camp pacing and huffing and getting in everyone's way. She's made the rules very clear; go off into the wilderness until you are calmed and your cycle was finished. Do not bring such scents into camp, especially if someone is not in their right mind.

And if they took a partner with them, so much the better. The fact that she had a log made already, noting everyone's times and when, usually by the moon phases, made sure she was in the know how of her own camp.

While she was no expert, it was common knowledge that individuals living close together usually started synchronizing. Marking the log, drawing connections in her free time, Wickerbottom had her notes and made sure to keep a close eye on those she shared a home with.

There would be no degenerating into chaos with her around.

And, even though she knew fairly well that a beta, no matter how highly she was elevated, had no match to an alpha, she was assured that there would be very little trouble in that department. Their little camp was, for the most part, comprised of betas anyhow.

The few alphas were well behaved, either due to being older like herself, or having interests in other hobbies. 

Woodie, even with his rather odd lycanthropic curse and certainly not very sound mind when it came to his axe, was a quiet man, and barring those two disadvantages was a stable person to have around. While she viewed the mental instability with disdain, the woodsman has been helpful with keeping things in check about camp. His very presence, experienced as he was, had the others deterring any rowdy behaviors.

And, while Willow was much too young to be trusted, the woman was far more interested in fire to be much of an issue in any such social regard. The fact that she's started tying herself to a midtier beta made things easier as well, though Wickerbottom had her own bias against such a match.

Wigfrid may be the greatest help they had in this camp, what with her hunting skills and natural talent at boosting moral, but that did not stop the old woman from sniffing and looking down upon the relationship. She did not voice herself, for politeness sake, but to her mind no good alpha would ever choose such a low beta. There were higher picks to choose from, and Wigfrid has not preened herself to a point that Wickerbottom viewed her as even on the same level.

But, the choice was not hers to make. Willow was, after all, a rather special youthful case. The young did have to make decisions for themselves, after all.

And, Wickerbottom stayed by the traditions she has grown up with; she had no say in what an alpha chose to do with their life.

As for the rest, she had set herself as one of the higher ups in the pecking order. Truly there weren't that many below her level, and those individuals, while sometimes a bit rude, socialized acceptably. There have been very few challenges as of yet, and nothing drastic enough to cause fighting or banishment.

There had been a bit of a debate on what to do with the former Nightmare King, but she supposed second chance won out in his favor. Having more than one omega in camp was a bit tense at first, but slowly relations were formed and, nowadays, this little civilization they have crafted was functioning quite well.

At least Wes was easy to get along with; her prior experiences with that caste made her wary, but the mute man was not uncomfortable to be around. Really, both omegas were more soft spoken than she anticipated, but not in the traditional sense she was more used to.

Wes was friendly, and seemed more modernized when she thought about it. Extroverted enough to socialize in a way that walked the fine line of social norms, but not at all pushy or manipulative to get what he wanted. Old as she was, and in general interacting as any normal human would, Wickerbottom found him to be a good working member of the camp, and below her more catching notice.

Time changed her taste, and she still very much remembered her family from before the Constant, long gone as some of them were.

Opposing the mime in terms of caste level was the former King, who still seemed a bit split in reminding everyone who he once was, or trying very, very hard in forgetting the whole ordeal. Maxwell presented a bit more old fashioned but secluded; from what she's gathered, mostly from Higgsbury, his time on the Nightmare Throne has thrown off the more basic signals an omega usually advertised. 

Not a terrible thing, but certainly something she frowned upon. It may help with keeping the camp in check, but she viewed such things as pathetic. No omega should be caught acting so lowly.

Guarded as he acted, Maxwell was not a waste to the camp. The magicians knowledge of the shadows was deep, and Wickerbottom has conversed on long nights with the man on such things, well into morning. She was polite, he was cordial, and at the end of the day Maxwell helped keep the camp safe and was not at all to her taste.

Her logs kept track of this, for cross referencing later, and when new developments occurred, such as the odd argument or even physical fight, she jotted it all down after having sorted the mess out. Those beginning days, back when this camp had only been a few tents and a thrown together firepit, had more excitement to them then now. Knowing each other a little better seems to have eased the more antisocial, aggressive behaviors.

Honestly, she had thought that it may worsen. Not everyone got along naturally, and when hormones ran rampant chaos was more likely to break out.

But they've all weathered through that mess, each time something occurred, and with the experience she had from both before and now with this lot Wickerbottom was assured in her duties to the camp as a whole.

These people may be clueless lunatics, but in metaphorical essence they were _her_ clueless lunatics. Wickerbottom had never been much of the mother hen type, but she's been called a goose before.

Obviously, such name calling had not been tolerated; she had won that challenge, all those years ago, and kept her standing because of it. As if she'd let some lowly beta, her own sister no less, get away with mocking her!

She was a bit more lenient here, however. With so many special cases, and with her older age, she had to be clever enough to keep everyone in line.

She shouldn't ever be the one in the thick of it, for sure.

As Wickerbottom returned to filing away Webbers scribbled attempt at homework with the rest of their papers, all just as scratchy as the next, she turned her attention to organizing the table, adjusting the rough made charcoal pencils and straightening up anything that looked a hint crooked. Slowly pulling out the chair, setting her cane just so to the side and then heaving a sigh as she seated herself, the old woman rubbed her head as she ruminated on the life she now lived.

Working with children seemed to awake that well worn part of herself; not motherly, that was long done and over with, but something close and certainly familiar. She had to admit that, when her cycle came around, even she felt a bit broody!

Something else to keep an eye on with the others; there was no telling what this place would do to children born into it. As careful as she was, Wickerbottom would not dare let herself think of such things, nor entertain such thoughts. She gave her orders, was explicit in commanding that there be a level of responsibility to be upheld, and so far no one has crossed that line. With so many individuals living in one place, even comprised of mostly betas, it was always a worry that would, eventually, have to be addressed.

For now, however, people were still being cautious enough.

Still, it was certainly better to have so many people living here, helping out. Eased that stress from her tired old bones, and kept her away from the laborious tasks that needed to be done. The younger and, as she believed, more biologically inclined should handle it all just fine. 

Opening her eyes, noting that morning was nearing its end, noon was up with a full risen sun, Wickerbottom leaned back in her creaky wooden chair, crooked and roughly hand made, and looked over the camp with a passing gaze.

Over by the woodpile was Woodie, looking as if he was mumbling to that axe of his again, but moving ever larger stacks together nonetheless. Their stores were quite well stocked for the coming harsher seasons, and her eyes passed over him, and his much appreciated work, easily.

By the crockpots and ice boxes was Wolfgang, hauling bags of spider flesh and frog legs to their respective containers. Even from here she could see he was at the top of his health, and it was with no embarrassment, only plain fact, that even she would admit that she was a bit more likely to swoon at the pinnacle of her cycles. The man was the picture perfect image of an alpha, with the muscle and well groomed look he kept about himself, but alas! Wickerbottom, when feeling more bitterly envious and hot under the collar, felt as if those good looks were a bit wasted on some beta!

When she had a more level head, she was a bit more understanding. Wolfgang was a meek, gentle man, even with how vigorously he handled threats and monsters, but his cowardly streak sometimes shown through at the worst of times. Still, he was a good influence to the children, and not at all one to cause trouble. She turned her gaze away, onto the rest of camp; beta she may be, but she had more dignity than to plainly oogle any dashing fella in view!

A few years younger than her, even, but none of her business. Wickerbottom turned up her nose, sniffed lightly at the almost companionable air that threaded through camp, and turned her sights elsewhere.

As such, onto the currently occupied Alchemy machine. Wonderfully insightful craftsmanship, if a bit sloppy and hard to learn, but its creator was a bit of a special case. Higgsbury was not older than Wolfgang, couldn't be, but he certainly smelled of exhausted time and bitter shadows.

A distinct aftereffect of traveling the Constants worlds; only two others had that similar scent, and both were rather intimately tied to this place.

Still, the man was a genius of his own right. Creating the portal to connect them all here was evidence enough, not to mention the inventions and prototypes he kept creating. 

But, Wickerbottom acutely acknowledged the fact that the man was certainly...lacking. Smart in the brains, and not much else. 

So, she ruled the fact that he had attention on him due to, again, the very Constant itself. She's already found that the fabric of this plane liked holding together close, and it seems those infected by it were drawn all the same.

Which was why she heaved another little sigh, folded her hands in her lap, and watched on as Higgsbury fiddled underneath his machine, own hand made tools at his side, while both omegas hovered nearby.

Wes was a bit more forward; he was obviously communicating, waving his hands and bending about the machines girth into trying to catch the man's attention, passive smile still set just so on his painted face; Maxwell, on the other hand, stood nearby, trying to hide impatience as he tapped his foot and crossed and uncrossed his arms, scowl set on his face and looking particularly peeved as he grumbled and huffed.

Whatever it was the both of them were trying to do, with Higgsbury so focused on fixing his machine and not giving either a singular glance, it certainly looked complicated.

Wickerbottom exhaled slow, a hint bemused; people these days, making it all so complex! When she was a young girl, she had been taught privy to how it was all supposed to go, who chose who and why, when, where, and especially _how_. Such an important aspect, and yet no one was teaching the kids these days on social etiquette!

Yet, modern days were a bit odd now. Even her own grandchildren have told her she was so old fashioned, behind the times, and that was well before she ended up here!

Regardless, camp was in a calm state. Two of their number were off in their own personal times together, the children attended to the gardens, no doubt that automaton keeping an eye on them across the way in their own fields. That other young lady had gone down into the caves to retrieve gears a day or so ago, antsy and looking a bit saddened in memories; Wickerbottom had been privy to a few secrets, and Winona had left behind a rather personal friend when she had crossed the portal to this world.

It was understandable, to miss those now lost in another reality; the woman may now be closer to her sister, but had lost that connection to another due to that choice. 

In much the same way that Wickerbottom knew she may never see her grandchildren, or even great grandchildren, ever again; a saddening train of thought, but she did not let herself dwell too often upon it. 

Life carried on, in this dreadful place even, and she would never be squished down by such things! In all its savagery, she worked to bring a stable sense of normality to this camp.

Even though, watching as Higgsbury finally poked his head out from under the machinery just to snap at Maxwell, earning himself a huffing glare and Wes dancing about with mocking silent laughter, it did seem to her to be a losing fight.

Oh well. Wickerbottom leaned her head back, closed her eyes for just a moment to rest her gaze, listening to faint bickering, quiet talking, the sound of the wind in the trees. Breathing in, the camp filled her senses with fresh wood, silk tent fabric, food cooking in crockpots, and that melding, mixing pot of individual scents, each so different from the next.

It was home, hers and theirs, and, to be truthful?

It was not the worst of outcomes for an old beta such as herself.


End file.
